It took a lot of trust to depend on somebody so heavily, and despite their differences Mabelle trusted Michel more than her judgment should have allowed. Relying on him wasn't an issue, better Michel than anyone else in the entirety of Paris, but having no choice but to rely on somebody completely with little to offer in return was not enough to keep her satisfied now that her health had recovered and she was physically capable of doing more even if her situation provided little option to do so. She wasn't even particularly stubborn or prideful, never all that ambitious, but unfortunately her patience drifted into a quietly frustrated boredom.
Boredom. And that she couldn't put up with, because there was nothing she was allowed to do within his small attic apartment, as if she weren't really living there at all. If it had been anyone else, she probably wouldn't have respected his restrictions. Although if it had been anyone else, she would have fled long before that.
But she had tried as long as possible to be content with the situation, thinking he wanted her out as soon as she could support herself again and wanting to delay that inevitability. It was unfair to him, but she was willing to overlook the other problems if that meant she could spend time with him in the hours he wasn't working.
"Fine," she echoed, calmly and with a tiny nod. Hopefully he'd get the right size of shoes, but she didn't want to make any comments. Better just to let him ask if he was uncertain.
Quiet for a few moments, Mabelle scooted her chair a bit closer again. "I love you," she stated without even glancing his way, casually as if it were anything else she was saying and not something so dangerous or taboo as it had become between them. But she wasn't holding a knife this time, so maybe it was okay.